


Forbidden

by aronnaxs



Series: Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt Fills [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Community: hobbit_kink, Incest, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for Hobbit Kink Meme prompt: The relationship between father and son is decidedly NOT platonic. Thorin happens upon them making love while attempting to escape the palace. They are so preoccupied with each other that they don't sense his presence, and he remains watching in secret because he simply cannot look away.</p><p>Bonus points (though not necessary) for Legolas topping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist this prompt, knowing my weakness for Legolas/Thranduil. Here's the link for the prompt and fill on the kink meme: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20601343#t20601343

The blackness of the corridors has been comforting to Thorin before now; he relishes how the void conceals his movements, seems to wrap about him and offer a protection from any prying eyes. If there is an opportunity to escape from these halls, it must be now. It must be that day. They must hurry in the darkness, so deep he doubts even elven senses can penetrate it. A gift has been given to them – it is more important than any other matter that it is not wasted.

But, low in the bowels of the Elvenking’s palace, he has stumbled into a problem.

He is lost.

And suddenly, the dark does not seem quite so blessed.

For not the first – and not the last – time that night, he wishes he has a weapon – any kind – lying in his hand. An axe, a sword, even a small dagger or blade. He feels naked without one, especially in this, the fortress of his enemies. They could be anywhere in this darkness, watching him, lurking in his wake. But he cannot be taken back to the dungeons, not now he has tasted the promise of escape, not now he and his company have come so close to the light…

He wonders what has become of them. Somehow, they have been separated and it is all Thorin can do to keep calm. He is not scared; not afraid of these winding halls, but angry that such a thing should happen to them then. Just when they need to act in a united fashion, just when it is paramount that they stay together. For their own good, he hopes he is the only one who has gone astray and the rest of the company are still together. Bilbo has become their last hope – they must follow the hobbit, wherever he takes them.

But, alone and tangled in this blackness, Thorin has no clue where they have gone. He has considered waiting for them, relying on the elusive wish that they may accidentally stumble into one another somewhere along the line. Yet he quickly had dismissed the idea; the humiliation of sitting idly in this wretched hole, at the mercy of whichever pointy-eared creature happened to venture near, would be too much. So he has decided to keep moving, always keep moving, to try and find his way out of this inky labyrinth.

As he walks, the corridors seem to stretch out and expand around him, as if some spell designed to madden and deceive lies upon them. He finds himself in a long, straight passageway, the ceiling vaulted high above his head and echoing back any sound his feet make upon the floor, even the tiniest of taps. It is infuriating; like everything in this palace is tailored to ensnare his very sanity and force him under the elves’ power.

But he will not allow that to happen – not ever, certainly not when their freedom lies so close at hand.

Trying to keep as alert as possible in this gloom, he moves, one cautious step at a time, down the tunnel, bristling, poised to attack at any moment. There is nothing, not any other sound but from his slow footfalls. It feels almost too silent, as if the palace has taken on the enchantment of the forest outside and is lying in wait to spring a trap upon him. The air is thick, heavy, almost tangible in its crush upon his chest. The sooner he finds his companions, the better, he thinks.

But, suddenly, out of somewhere in this emptiness, he hears a noise, the slightest creaking becoming audible. He stops dead in his tracks. His hands instantly go for his sword, to only realise again that he hasn't one. All breath sticks in his throat. 

Then, the sound all but stops and on top of it, far more perturbing, comes a long, hoarse, drawn-out moan. It appears to reach down the hall towards him and it is everything he can do to quickly dash to where he assumes the side of the corridor is. Yet, no matter how long he waits in dizzying anticipation, nobody draws near him, no footsteps come down the passageway. He is still alone. He is still shrouded in the dark.

Only now, he is slightly more on edge. 

To his regret, the moans continue, low and high, peppered with short gasps. He is not naive; he knows exactly what these sounds mean. But that knowledge does nothing for his patience. In fact, if anything, it stretches it out even thinner. Now he is caught in this blackness, walking further and further astray from his company for all he knows, and somewhere, he can hear elves making love, or whatever it is those terrible creatures do. He has never given it much thought before. He has never wanted to and is quite content with that.

Soon, however, he has found what he assumes is the source of all this noise. In front of him, the hallway suddenly comes to an end, stopping so abruptly he almost walks into a wall, and to his side, another one opens up. It looks the same as the other, long and forbidding, with the only exception being the orange light flooding across the floor halfway down. From here, the moans increase in their volume, as if he has wandered closer to their origin. 

With his heart sinking in his breast, he realises that he has no other way to go but to venture past them. He can't turn back for the way he came has been swallowed by the darkness, and there is no other direction to move in this hole than forwards. In all his years, he has never thought he would end up in a situation like this.

As he continues to walk, pressing as lightly as he can upon the cold floor, he moves to the wall opposite from the orange light. Its wavering arm doesn't quite touch the entire width of the corridor so he finds he can quite safely edge along the stone without being illuminated. Still, he holds his breath as he draws near to the glow, as if it will suddenly veer like a searching eye and burn him where he stands. And on top of that, there are still the moans, loud in his ear now. He is certain that they are coming from the door the light is spilling out of. The one he has to draw past. Fantastic, he thinks.

It is flung open wide when he comes nearer to it. He pushes himself against the opposite wall to avoid the glow teeming from its mouth and finds that his body fits nicely into the remaining darkness. He almost wants to close his eyes. He will not look through the door. He will not look. There is nothing there that will benefit him; only visions that will surely scar his eyes forever.

He keeps moving, head down. The sounds, merely on the other side of him now, intensify. They get louder, more frequent, more passionate. He swears he can hear words mixed in, what he can only guess are elvish curses uttered in pleasure. 

A spell feels as though it has been cast on him. Suddenly, his mind aches, whispers malevolently for him to raise his head and look. He fights it, concentrating on getting past the light without accidentally stumbling into it. But it itches and tingles, every noise luring him to a certain pit of despair. But one that sounds so lovely...

He has no excuse as his eyes flick upwards, a break in his self control. Yet he has no time to think of a reason, or explanation, as all the breath rushes from his lungs.

Only ten paces away at most, the elven prince of Mirkwood kneels on his haunches, balanced on a large, lavish bed and entirely unclothed. His head is thrown back over his strong shoulders, hair spilling in a golden fountain down his back and his mouth is slack open, panting, moaning. His hips thrust rhythmically and - oh, sweet Mahal - his wet arousal continuously pierces a glowing, tight body below him. The debauchery of it immediately drives a punch straight into Thorin's gut. He backs even further into the wall, tries to look away but finds he can't. His gaze is trapped on the erotic vision before him, mere feet away. If he even so much as breathes, he knows that the prince could be able to sense him. 

But, for the first time since he has become separated from the company, fortune seems to be on his side. The elf is so enraptured, so caught up in his own pleasure, that he is barely registering anything else. Thorin stares, breath sticking in his suddenly parched throat, as he takes the long, lithe legs parted on either side of his hips and shifts them higher, adjusting the angle. An unmistakeable moan shudders from his partner. A strong but elegant hand comes to slide up his taut side. He leans into the gentle touch then leans down so it can venture further into his hair, stroking, pulling a little.

And then comes a voice which makes all of Thorin's blood instantly turn to ice. He had thought that, upon his escape from the woodland realm, he would never have to hear that tone again, low, venomous, otherworldly. He would have been glad to banish it from his mind, from the corners of his life which it had infected so much. But now there it is again, only now much hoarser and broken, and... 

Thorin feels his heart skip a beat - more than one - as the full realisation of it all sinks in. No. No, this cannot be possible. Such things are frowned upon. Not just frowned upon; they are wrong, they are forbidden, depraved... 

He hadn't realised that the morals of elves sunk lower than the vile ways the Elvenking had treated his kith and kin. 

He wrenches his gaze away, stares at the floor as he tries desperately to block the image of the prince in such ecstasy out of his mind. His heart is pounding, head dizzy with the blood rushing through it, and he cannot comprehend what he is standing on the threshold of. If anyone else was to whisper of it, he would have never believed them, despite harbouring a deep reckoning of the elves' wretchedness. But right before him, bathed in golden light, trembling and moaning, is the prince of the Woodland Realm and his own father, engaging in such acts that would make even the hardiest warrior blush. 

He wants to run, before the vision burns into his brain, but he cannot move too quickly lest they hear him. And the prospect of being caught now weighs even heavier upon him, shameful, humiliating. Their wrath upon finding him would surely be unimaginable and merciless - obviously none were meant to see what transpired between king and prince in private. If he is to be captured again, he knows the dungeons would be his home for far longer than he could even comprehend. The days and nights would stretch on and on beyond his former imprisonment and he would not be permitted to talk to anyone, not a soul, for the shame of someone discovering their dirty secret. 

The fate sounds even worse than facing Smaug at the end of this seemingly eternal journey. 

But, still, the sound of the Elvenking's voice, low, breathless, husky, strikes right into his stomach, twisting his insides intolerably, darkening his mind with anger. Even now, he still bears the loftiness in his intonation, high, mighty. 

"You are doing well, Legolas," he murmurs. "You are doing so well." 

He hears the younger elf hum in gratitude, can almost see his face as he makes that awful noise, flushed, contorted. "Ada -" he says reverently. "Oh - it is only - because you feel - incredible..." 

Thranduil chuckles softly. 

Thorin has heard enough. He keeps his head down, bowed into the darkness, and, trying to block out his ears through will alone, continues past the door. The younger elf's groans follow him, intense, excited. Having seen him before in the forest and in front of the throne of the king, poised and in total control of himself like so many of the Firstborn, he would not have thought he would be so vocal. He wishes he wasn't. He will be hearing those sounds for a long while, no matter how hard he tries to forget them. 

But then, suddenly, they stop, almost as quickly as they had began. For a moment, everything stands still. The horrible thought that he has been discovered enters Thorin's mind.

On gut instinct, he looks sharply up, ready to defend himself. 

Only to find that the two elves are still attached to each other, entwined and writhing, but now Legolas is pressed flush against his father, their mouths crushed together. Before he knows what is happening, all the blood instantly rushes southwards in Thorin's body. For the first time, he can see both of them together and he has inadvertently found the perfect place to watch from. It is a frighteningly erotic thing to behold, two forms so very similar, the creation and the creator, tangled in the most intimate embrace. Thorin clenches his hands at his sides. He must not look. He must keep going - away from this depravity - and find his companions. 

But oh, the sight is intoxicating. And the forbidden nature of this coupling, and of watching it, merely makes his breath come quicker. 

Thranduil tangles his hands in Legolas' hair as they kiss, open mouthed, wet, tongues slipping and sliding lewdly along each other's. His legs part further in invitation and Thorin can see all the muscles in his thighs tense and twitch as Legolas thrusts harder. He moans, a sound which makes the prince shudder, and the dwarf warm up. It is disgusting, he tries to remind himself but he cannot find the will anymore. All his concentration revolves around the golden vision on the bed before him.

Legolas adjusts the angle again and slides one of his hands down from his father's shoulders into the slick seam between their bodies. His wrist moves quickly and Thorin sees Thranduil's fingers clench into his fists, his toes curl. "Ai -" he sighs when the kiss breaks for want of air. "You are so good to me, Legolas -" 

"Mmm..." Legolas' mouth is busy on Thranduil's neck, kissing in time with his thrusts and strokes. "I love you, ada..."

The Elvenking shudders at the words. He smiles and rubs Legolas' back, only stopping when he is again wracked by pleasure and his nails dig into the soft flesh. "Oh, my treasure. I love you too -"

Even now, the statement strikes Thorin. Before, in the halls of the king, he had seen no warmth between them at all, only strict, cold formality that was nothing more than the treatment of his other subjects. If it hadn't been for their looks, and previous knowledge, Thorin would have never thought of them as being related. Now, they were at the other extreme, overly friendly with each other, surpassing all boundaries of blood ties. He wondered if this was some sort of strange fantasy for them, icy relations covering up all their affection so it could be poured out later in private. He wouldn't put it past them. He wouldn't put anything past the elves after seeing this. 

Beginning to pant a little faster, Thranduil guides his nimble hands down Legolas' spine, tracing the contours and ridges until he squirms. He buries his head into his father's shoulder and Thorin sees him gladly comply as Thranduil grasps his hips, allowing himself to be guided for a while. He cannot stop staring. The sight is addictive. 

And he has not remained unaffected by it.

He tries to fight it, making one last attempt to flee, but it feels as though his feet are firmly planted into the floor. The whole world narrows down to the two elves before him, kissing, touching, making love. He wants to call it fucking but they are too tender, too gentle with each other... It is stirring him at an unbelievable, shameful pace.

Thranduil splays out his fingers and they clutch at Legolas' rounded, tense bottom, pressing, kneading, massaging. Legolas moans, his rhythm momentarily faltering. "A-Ada -" he murmurs, and then gasps as two of those treacherous fingers venture into the dark cleft. "Oh -!" 

Thranduil smiles and brings up his other hand to Legolas' mouth. Without any words, Legolas knows what to do, and he willingly, vigorously, begins to suck on the offered digits. Thorin's growing arousal twitches as he watches that glistening wet tongue lathe over them, licking, engulfing, coating the skin in dripping saliva. No doubt is left in his mind as to what else the elf can do with his mouth. 

Thranduil groans in approval and rewards the prince by sliding his hand back down his body and onto his taut backside. One finger explores into the secret valley and presses deep and low. Legolas arches and stiffens, eyes fluttering back inside his lids. "Ai - ada - please, hurry," he manages desperately, almost whining. Thorin violently curses the rampant blood in his veins, pumping and racing and rapidly filling his cock. At this stage, he is not sure who would be more embarrassed to be found; him or the elves. Either way it would not end well -

Before him, Legolas' thrusts increase in their strength, showing Thranduil exactly how he wishes to be fucked. Already too far gone himself, Thranduil yields, slipping his finger further inside and obviously firmly rubbing his hidden inner walls. Legolas jerks, whimpering, and occupies his mouth by ravaging his father's ear, nibbling and fondling it with his tongue. Thranduil's knees tighten about his waist, trembling.

And it is all Thorin can do now to keep his own hands from the ties on his trousers and relieving the ache building in his lap. He cannot believe that elves - horrible, rotten creatures - have forced this reaction from him. Curse them and their alien, ethereal nature, so alluring in their nakedness, so utterly decadent. It is terrible. Devastating. 

He doesn't even know how he got there anymore. All he can see, all he can think, all he can feel, is centred around the prince and the king. By the gods, he has to watch them peak - Just to satisfy a suddenly curious, hungry mind.

And it doesn't seem like it will be long until he is able to witness that. 

As if on cue, Legolas thrusts again and Thranduil instantly cries aloud, throwing back his head. "Legolas!" he shouts, then again as he sucks on his bared throat. "Oh, iôn-nîn...there -" 

The prince obeys and Thranduil thanks him by lovingly, heatedly kissing his neck just below the ear, biting the flushed skin. He times his ravishing to synchronise with the movement of his fingers, penetrating in and out of Legolas' entrance. Evidently, he is soon brushing the same spot Legolas has found within him as the younger elf's body begins to quiver, gasps rushing from him. He pushes back into him, trying to get more pressure, more satisfaction. "Yes -" he says simply. "Yes -!"

Thranduil moans at this response, laughing highly in his pleasure, and squeezes Legolas tighter to him. The prince's rhythm is stuttering significantly now and Thorin knows that it will not take much more before they reach the edge. Legolas sobs in delight, whole body shining and glowing with perspiration, and his father is tightening at every thrust, brow furrowing, eyes blissfully shut. It is a sight Thorin knows will trouble his mind for a long while yet. 

And, between their sighs, he can hear his own breathing almost matching theirs, heart thumping so loudly in his ears he is glad that they are distracted else they would surely sense it. He curls his hands into painfully hard fists at his sides, willing himself to watch, willing himself to look away. His legs can barely hold himself up anymore, as frozen as ice beneath him. He cannot move, he cannot think, he cannot stop -

Before his very eyes, the beautiful, venerable Prince of Mirkwood suddenly stills and then scrambles wildly for his father's hand. He grasps it tightly, clutching enough to almost break bones, and the sound of his breath coming out in quick, panicked gasps reaches Thorin's ears. His mouth opens, twitching at the corners in an expression of pure euphoria. Thorin can nearly feel the tension in his body as he teeters on the edge, wavering, stumbling, just about to go over, if he will only get one more push. The shifting of Thranduil's fingers within his shivering hole turns out to be that last encouragement.

All eyes are on the younger elf as he tosses his head backwards, hair bursting undone from the braids, and lets out the most carnal, obscene wail. Tears spill down his cheeks and he furiously bites his lip to quell the sounds yet they gush from him anyway, moans, whines, shrieks. "Ada, ada!" he calls over and over and it is this that drives Thranduil to follow him into his own climax. He writhes and tugs furiously at the covers with his free hand and for a few moments, Thorin witnesses him completely lose his fiercely regimented self control. His eyes cross and roll up in his pleasure and spurt after spurt of thick, white liquid splashes across his stomach, staining his porcelain, smooth skin and sheets below. 

"Legolas -" he tries to say but his voice is stolen from him and he merely mouths it. "My - beauty..." 

Thorin does not know what to do, though truth is he cannot do anything. The elves' peaks last for far longer than dwarven ones and by the looks and sounds of things, they are far more intense. When they have at last finished, both are near to collapsing, exhausted, panting for breath. Legolas falls onto his father and they embrace, sticky, soaked but still as tender and intimate as before. Thranduil strokes his damp hair back from his forehead and smiles gently, a mere shadow of the icy, stoic king Thorin thought he knew. The change is vast, but not jarring, as he settles into this previously unimaginable, caring role with grace and ease. Thorin is shocked...touched. Even more so as Legolas begins to mutter adoring words of love and affection into Thranduil's ear, warmly responded to by his father.

As they relax down into each other's arms, the dwarf knows he must leave. He doesn't know how long he has spent staring at the king and the prince but time will not wait for anyone and he needs to reunite with his company, if they are to flee from these halls. Yet, still, he is loth to part from this tranquil sight before him, a glimpse into the hidden lives of the elves he detests so much, who he considered he knew all he ever wanted to about them. He cannot comprehend quite yet the effect his observations will have upon him, and, right now, he is not sure he wants to know.

He has to leave. He has to find his companions.

One thing he does know for certain though is that he now holds information that would cripple the Elvenking, something he has craved for ever since he abandoned his kin to the flames at Erebor. It would wreck his reputation and standing, send him into ruin. 

But, as he hurries down the corridor away from them, deep down, he feels a heavy conflict brewing at the thought of it. He doesn't know why, doesn't know how, but the image of the king and his son together has aroused more than just primal heat within him. They are beautiful, spellbinding, enchanting in their passion - 

He wishes he had never strayed down this corridor.

He needs to get away from this awful fortress and its ruinous inhabitants. 

Maybe then he will forget about them and the forbidden nature of this whole affair.


End file.
